


the unfamiliar name

by left_uncovered



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Alternate Universe - Westworld, Artificial Intelligence, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/left_uncovered/pseuds/left_uncovered
Summary: Bring him back online.Do you know where you are?





	the unfamiliar name

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU of the HBO show Westworld, which is set in "a technologically advanced Wild West-themed amusement park populated by android hosts. Westworld caters to high-paying guests, who may indulge in whatever they wish within the park, without fear of retaliation from the hosts." Hosts operate within programmed loops/intersecting storylines that form narratives guests participate in. At the end of the narratives, they are reset so they retain no memory from their previous loops.
> 
> That's about all you have to know for this. Please heed the Choose Not To Warn. I don't think anything here is particularly graphic, but it might still be upsetting. If you want specific warnings (somewhat spoilery), skip to the end notes.

1.

Bring him back online.

Do you know where you are?

2.

The sun is hot against the back of his neck. He heaves a log off the stack, lays it down parallel to the rest of the crossties. The tracks extend farther down than he can see, disappearing behind thick clouds of dust, chalky against his throat with every inhale.

Today, they start hammering in the rail spikes.

Today, they build a mile west.

When he straightens out, there’s a man smiling at him across the tracks. Dark hair, dark eyes, sunburn creeping outward from the tip of his nose. He wipes away beads of sweat on his forehead. “All in a day’s work,” he says, letting out an exaggerated huff and swinging his arms out in front of him.

3.

On Sundays, he goes to Sweetwater. The front of the general store has grown dilapidated with age, though he can’t remember a time it looked any different.

“Good morning,” Bill says from behind the counter as he enters. He tips his hat at him. “Morning, Bill.”

Light is beginning to stream in through the single window, casting shadows through the dank gloom. He steps around a crate to reach for a bottle of molasses, a can of milk.

When he’s done with his shopping, he goes across the street to the Mariposa for a drink. Poker chips clink against each other. Flustered newcomers stumble down the stairs from their rooms, shirts still untucked. Oren pours him a rye whiskey and they toast to the lady with the white shoes.

Maeve leans against the bar, eying the entrance, then twists her body towards his so she can cup his cheek. Swipes her thumb over his bottom lip. Smiles. “Nothing else for you?”

4.

May you rest in a deep and dreamless slumber.

5.

He goes to Sweetwater. Mud tracks stain the floor of Bill’s general store.

Good morning.

Morning, Bill.

Molasses. Milk.

Outside the air is thick with dust, swirling up in the breeze. His throat grows chalky with every inhale.

Clink of poker chips. Clang of metal.

Rye whiskey.

Nothing else for you?

May you rest –

6.

He goes to Sweetwater.

Rye whiskey. Clang of metal.

A pair of newcomers are slouched over the bar. He nods at them before sliding into his seat.

“I like this one,” the first tells the second.

“Jeremy?” Snort. Incredulous laugh. “He’s just a rancher. Does the family-friendly stuff. Wait till you see what’s upstairs.”

“I like this one,” he repeats. “I want this one.”

Clink of coin. Clang of metal.

He presses his body against the man’s. Guides his hand to the front of his pants, where he’s growing hard. Looks up and smiles.

Dark hair. Dark eyes.

“Holy _shit_ , they’re so lifelike.”

The man’s friend claps him on the shoulder. Jeremy takes his hand and leads him upstairs.

He spreads his legs and opens his mouth, and when the man is done with him, he closes it.

7.

“We all have a path,” he whispers. His breath fans out across Jeremy’s collarbone. Jeremy presses his cold feet against his under the blanket. His heart beats steady in his chest. “My path leads me back to you.”

8.

He camps by the tracks, summer air warm enough that he can lie on his back, gaze turned upward to the canopy of stars.

9.

“We should dance,” he says, when the night is too balmy to be wasted inside a tent.

Jeremy’s body is already heavy with sleep, limbs weak with the day’s exertion. He doesn’t want to refuse though, reluctant to dim the smile stretching out across the man’s face.

“Somebody might see,” he says instead, because it seems like a more reasonable excuse.

The man reaches for his hand and pulls him up anyway, and he whines but eventually relents. They stumble outside to a deserted field, lamps extinguished inside the other tents. He pulls Jeremy against him before spinning him outward. They kick up dust when their ankles clap together. “No longer abash'd, for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,” he recites, delighted, against the corner of Jeremy’s mouth.

10.

He camps by the tracks. It’s summer. It’s always summer. Whitman rolls easily off the tongue. Calamus, he knows, though he doesn’t know how.

In his linen drawer, underneath the sheets and handkerchiefs, is a book with pages creased and edges pressed down. It’s in his drawer, so it must be his, but these days it’s hard to tell.

We all have a path –

11.

He camps by the tracks. It’s summer. Footsteps, short strides then longer. Ball of light approaching, swinging slow arc. He sits up and squints.

“Who’s this guy?”

Four men, guns drawn. Cocked.

He scrambles across the dirt on his knees, too dizzy from sleep to force himself upward. Laughter. Whoosh of a bullet through air. Sound of metal meeting flesh, slap of skin, crack of bone. Tear drip ache.

“Now that’s a fucking vacation!”

Footsteps, then gone.

12.

Do you know where you are?

I’m in a dream.

That’s right, Jeremy. Do you want to wake up from this dream?

13.

Whoosh of air. Footsteps. Scratch of metal against floor. Woman across him. Dark hair. Dark eyes.

What’s his name?

Jeremy.

Access event log.

He’s out of his loop. (Man. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes.) He was out on the tracks when the guest shot him. Maybe his locator’s off. Let’s send him to QA, let them do the troubleshooting.

No, wait. Access prior builds. See that? From the old South Pacific narrative?

The tracks. Do you think –

Let’s tag him. See if he self-corrects. If not, we can roll him back. Wipe him and send for clean-up.

14.

Do you want to wake up from this dream?

Yes. I’m terrified.

15.

May you rest in a deep and dreamless slumber.

16.

He goes to Sweetwater. Main street is beginning to fill with people, milling about in groups of threes and fours. He blinks against the early morning glare, in every lift of eyelids are faces he does and doesn’t know.

The sun sears the flesh down his neck. Always warm, always summer. A new kind of heat unfurls through his insides. His blood sings with a yearning he can’t name.

Clang of metal. Chirp of crickets.

Nothing else for you.

17.

_Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,_

_From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures,_

_profits, conformities_ –

No longer abash’d. No longer abash’d.

18.

They swipe a bottle of rye whiskey from the Mariposa and ride north, past the Old Fields, up the winding path, above valleys and through the hills to the lowlands. Here the fields seem to sprawl on endlessly, bound only by the sky above. They pass the bottle between them until they’re drunk enough that Jeremy allows him to leave marks against his neck, bruises like borders across pale skin. They lie in the tall grass the entire afternoon, faces tilted up toward the sun.

19.

Bring yourself back online.

Blink. Harsh light.

Why were you out on the tracks?

I don’t know.

They look at each other.

Analysis. Why were you out on the tracks?

I was looking for the man.

What man?

20.

Clang of hammer on spike, burn of whiskey on tongue. Man across the tracks. Sun in his eyes. Reaching out, book in hand.

Michael.

Name out of nothing.

There is no man.

21.

Six pairs of eyes sitting across him unblinking.

Tell us about the man.

22.

The man is a guest.

A newcomer?

Yes, Jeremy.

I want to see him again.

He won’t be returning.

Voice rising in his throat.

I want to see him again –

Close your eyes. May you rest in a deep and dreamless slumber.

23.

Bring yourself back online.

They tell him the man won’t be returning, then they offer him a choice.

Slap on the back, ruffle of hair.

He’ll be fine, good old Jeremy.

Wipe’s complete. He’s good as new. Tag for QA.

24.

Bring him back online.

Do you know where you are?

25.

We all have a path. My path is bound with yours.

26.

He goes to Sweetwater.

Outside the Mariposa, a man ambles down main street. Dark hair, dark eyes, slice of profile framed by the open window, here then gone. Jeremy turns away.

Nothing else for you?

Nothing else for you.

**Author's Note:**

>  **SPECIFIC WARNINGS:** There is some violence. Technically everything here is dubcon since the hosts are programmed to cater to whatever guests want.
> 
> This is the most experimental thing I've written. I hope I got at least a bit of it right. Concrit is much appreciated, especially if this was confusing, and not in a good way. The fic is intentionally ambiguous and disorienting, but it is supposed to make sense by the end.
> 
> Title is from [T.S. Eliot](http://www.columbia.edu/itc/history/winter/w3206/edit/tseliotlittlegidding.html) ("love is the unfamiliar Name"). The lines of poetry are from Walt Whitman's [Calamus poems.](https://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1891/poems/45) While googling around for this fic, I read that gay American men in the 19th century exchanged Whitman's poetry as a way of showing each other affection; I've since been unable to validate this, but too late -- it is in this fic now! If you've seen the show, the refrain of "No longer abash'd" functions similarly to "These violent delights have violent ends", though that's not particularly important to this fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm on [Tumblr.](https://softfists.tumblr.com)


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